


The Summit Shrouded in Fog

by Sinope



Series: A Canticle of Transfigurations [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Developing Relationship, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Heavy BDSM, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Porn With Plot, Sadism, Safeword Use, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6879970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull is very good at inflicting pain.  Too good, maybe.</p><p>In which Cullen suffers exquisitely, Bull learns which losses he cannot suffer, and Dorian runs out of patience for suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Summit Shrouded in Fog

**Author's Note:**

> This follows my other DAI fics, but it can be read independently; the main thing to know is that Cullen and Bull are in an ongoing relationship with kink elements, and Dorian’s joined them once already.
> 
>  **Content Warning** : This fic contains consensual but rather intense BDSM, including a little blood in one scene and eventual use of a safeword by one character. There are also brief memories of torture (to avoid them, skip the paragraph starting with, “She had only been fourteen.”) and references to prior sexual encounters that turned out to have been less consensual than Bull thought at the time. They are never described in detail, and no one knowingly violates consent.

_**Iron Bull:** Finding someone who needs killing and just taking them apart — brutally, skillfully, so their last living thought is realizing that I’m stronger and smarter than they are? Yeah, I like that a lot.  
 **Sera:** That’s weird.  
 **Iron Bull:** I didn’t say it was healthy. Look, I can either press those feelings down until I snap and hurt someone I care about, or we can go find some bad guys who need to die.  
 **Sera:** … Right. Bring on the baddies._

 

 

“You’ve got to understand something,” the Iron Bull said.

Cullen stayed silent — he didn’t like to talk when they played like this — but he met Bull’s gaze. Bull avoided blindfolds for exactly that reason: you could see the defeat in someone’s eyes long before the rest of their body got the message.

“See, I like taking care of people. I like being what they need, even if what they need is slow, perfume-and-flowers lovemaking. And all that shit is great, don’t get me wrong. But I _really_ like hurting people.”

To emphasize his point, Bull reached behind Cullen’s kneeling form and plucked at the taut rope; it connected the back of his collar to the slender cords that bound his balls. Three things happened in very quick succession: Cullen groaned through his gritted teeth; he craned his neck further backwards to relieve the painful tension; and he gasped again when the movement tugged tighter at the delicate chains between his collar and the metal clamps on his nipples. Then the cycle repeated itself, Cullen unable to maintain the stillness that had kept him at an equilibrium; no matter whether his neck twitched forward or back, the resulting waves of pain would set him off kilter again.

Delicious.

“There’s just something about hearing someone scream and knowing that I took them there,” Bull continued to muse aloud. “Sure, fighting someone is easy, but figuring out the most effective way to make them hurt, the best way to tear them apart until they beg and cry? That’s the challenge I love.”

He reached between Cullen’s knees — spread wide by ropes that attached to the bedposts — and took a generous pinch of his inner thigh between thumb and forefinger, then squeezed. Hard. Cullen inhaled wetly, his eyes dewy with tears, and the Bull smiled. “Fuck, you’re pretty like this.” He pinched Cullen’s opposite leg in the same place, just as hard; by tomorrow he’d have two matching purple bruises, hidden where only Bull could see.

Bull reached upward next and cupped Cullen’s cock in his hand with the lightest of touches. The cords that captured and separated Cullen’s balls left his shaft nearly bare, and he was hard — had been for ages — and bore a single clear trickle of pre-cum dripping from his head. Looking down at the unmarred, trembling member in his hand, Bull allowed himself a predatory smile.

He met Cullen’s eyes. “Are you afraid of me, Commander Cullen?” A pause. “You can nod."

Cullen did nod, ever so softly. Perhaps he thought the tiny movement could avoid a fresh wave of pain in his trapped nipples and balls. Judging by the grimace and abortive cry that followed, he hadn’t succeeded.

Bull leaned forward, bare inches from Cullen’s face, and he let the intimidating mantle of the Iron Bull settle into him. “You. Should. Be.”

Then he seized Cullen’s foreskin and pinched it forcefully at the tip. Cullen’s scream echoed against the stone walls; just as it began to die down, Bull twisted the trapped skin between his fingers, setting off a fresh wave of inchoate, desperate sound. The nascent wetness of Cullen’s eyes had broken into full-fledged tears now, and his whole body shook with fine tremors.

Bull played with Cullen’s foreskin for several minutes, alternately pinching, twisting, and pulling on it, until Cullen’s wet-choked gasps came so thickly that he struggled for air. Then Bull let go and sat back to watch the other man’s breath return to something like normal. “I love that you’re still hard for me, _kadan_. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you.” A wicked vision came to mind. “Maybe I should leave you like this overnight. You can sleep on your knees, right? I might not bother to take care of this —“ he swatted Cullen’s erection with his hand, savoring the resulting shudder “— until morning. Of course, I haven’t gotten to come yet, either, so I might invite Dorian over to help with that. And you’d sit there for me and watch and suffer, wouldn’t you. _Fuck_ , you take my orders so well. Such a good, good boy.”

He suspected that Cullen could barely see through the tears in his eyes, but he tried to meet Bull’s gaze anyway, his expression radiating trust. Bull felt his own face soften into a smile. “Not tonight, though. Tonight, I’m going to hurt you until you think you can’t take it any more, and then I’m going to make you come so hard that you’ll be begging me to do it all over again. Sound good?”

He left the final question hanging and waited expectantly until Cullen nodded, immediately wincing from the ensuing pain. “Good boy,” Bull told him, and he reached over to grab the whippiest of his slender canes.

 

…

 

Bull found it rather endearing, the way that Cullen’s first and greatest need after each scene was the reassurance of skin contact. He held Cullen to his chest while the smaller man sipped from his canteen, Bull’s hand playing with the curls of his mussed hair. Times like these, talking wasn’t necessary.

Cullen didn’t stay in Bull’s room every night, but from the way he wrapped himself around Bull’s body after setting down the water, tonight looked to be one of those times. That was just fine by Bull; he only planned intense scenes when he knew that neither of them had early morning appointments. Maybe he’d see about getting some food from the kitchens before Cullen woke up; nightmares still troubled the other man on many nights, and they’d found that the tastes of fresh food helped to ground him back in reality. Then, if Bull was lucky, they —

“Did you mean what you said, earlier?” Cullen’s sleepy voice interrupted his thoughts.

Bull chuckled. “I said a lot of things earlier, _kadan_. You’ll have to specify.”

“About leaving me tied up all night while you and Dorian … er, enjoyed each other.”

“Oh yeah, that. Well, I’m not going to leave you all night in _that_ position, because that’s gonna leave you with muscle cramps at best and asphyxiation at worst. But I don’t think that’s the part you had in mind.”

“Not quite,” Cullen agreed. “I don’t think I’d … react well if I had a nightmare while I was restrained.”

“So Dorian, then. You two ever talk about what we did the other night?” It had been a couple of weeks since Dorian had joined them in the bedroom for the first time, and while Bull personally considered the experience a rousing success, Cullen hadn’t brought it up since. Bull figured the kid had just needed time to process.

Cullen laughed softly, his breath puffing against Bull’s chest. “That would require communicating with him in some form beyond sarcasm, sass, and chess moves. We’ve never been very good at that. But the chess games have continued, so I suppose that’s something.”

“Got it. Well, then, you and I should start with talking about what you would want.”

“Must I be the one to start? I’m pretty sure you get a say in this too,” Cullen said. His fingers scritched the skin around the base of Bull’s horns, right where it made Bull want to purr like a sated dragon.

“Damn it, you know I can’t focus when you’re doing that,” Bull said, but chuckled. “All right, have it your way. So. You know that Qunari don’t do relationships the way you people do, and we definitely don’t do monogamy. Don’t get me wrong — I’m willing to compromise on that, if it’s what you need. But from my perspective, I like Dorian, I think he looked damn good on my bed, and I’ll happily fuck the pretty fop any time. Doesn’t change anything about you and me. Now back to what you want.”

“First of all, I want this. Us.” Cullen’s eyes darted away from Bull’s, a tell of vulnerability rather than deception. “I know you can enjoy these activities with anyone, but … I can’t. To be perfectly honest, I never thought I’d be able to feel this way with another person — this safe, this strong.” He sighed, then looked back at Bull with a wry smile. “You know quite well that I — that I have noticed Dorian, and the thought of watching you together is extremely distracting. But I —“ He fell quiet.

“I need you to say it,” Bull prodded. “This is about more than sex, more than you and me, so I can’t just go on reading your silences.” _For your sake, as much as mine_ , he didn’t add.

“All right, then. I’m interested. More than just interested, to tell the truth. But I’m not sure which thought frightens me more: the possibility that you’ll think that interest means I don’t want what we have, or the idea that if you can share this with him, it’s no longer something that’s mine.” A wan smile flickered on his lips, then disappeared. “Change hasn’t usually meant good things for me, historically.”

Bull paused at playing with Cullen’s hair and instead gripped his scalp firmly, the reassuring gesture as familiar as a kiss between them. “ _Kadan_. I can have a good time with anyone, yeah. But the only person I can enjoy _this_ with is you. That won’t change.”

Part of Bull wanted to say more — to try to explain how terrifying it was to have found someone who welcomed so beautifully the pain that he loved to give, yet who met his gaze as an equal and friend. But that could wait.

“I’ll talk to Dorian, then,” he said at last. “See if he’s interested in making this more than a one-time deal.” His hand drifted downward, stroking across Cullen’s back and ass — both of them luscious works of art made only more appealing by the regular red stripes of the cane’s imprint. He scratched a blunt fingernail over one welt, just to feel Cullen’s quiet whine. “Tomorrow, though.”

 

…

 

Dorian, Bull had long known, was an enjoyably infuriating mixture of transparency and misdirection. Most of the time, the more that Dorian cared about something, the more that he deflected around it (and no, Bull didn’t like to contemplate what kind of childhood would ingrain that particular instinct). But there was also a threshold — a point where he became so overwhelmed that he couldn’t bother to misdirect any further, because he was too busy with raw _feeling_. Bull felt privileged to have witnessed that point when Dorian had joined him and Cullen in bed.

Today, Dorian hadn’t quite reached that impassioned level, but he hovered near it, and not for good reasons. Bull found him in his usual library nook and saw him gripping a piece of parchment like a vise, a multi-layered expression on his face. “Dorian?” Bull asked softly.

Dorian looked up, startled, and made an abortive movement to hide the parchment behind his back. Then his charming smirk slid back into place, albeit shakily. “The Iron Bull. What in Andraste’s name brings you into a library?”

“Well, I kept hearing everyone talking about these things called ‘books,’ so I thought I’d see what they looked like first-hand.” Then Bull dropped the sarcasm. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Just a request for my presence; I have to turn down so many social invitations that responding to them all becomes terribly dull, you see.”

“I didn’t think that many of your old friends even knew where you were now.”

Dorian’s nose wrinkled. “Yes, well, apparently it _is_ possible to track me down here, if you know whom to ask.”

Bull nodded. “But you’re turning down the invitation anyway?”

“Even if I wanted to go, which I don’t, the request was relayed through the Inquisitor, and her advisors want her around, so they can coordinate plans for the assault on Adamant Fortress. I suppose I’m lucky that she ignored the letter’s instructions enough to give it to me in the first place.”

A picture began to emerge, and Bull didn’t like it. “Hold on. The letter wanted the Inquisitor to take you somewhere without telling you why?”

“Precisely.” Dorian sighed. “Here. You’ll eventually learn about it anyway, and this way I don’t have to undergo a second interrogation about the whole affair.” He thrust the rather crinkled parchment into Bull’s hands.

Bull smoothed it out and read. The writing looked like a Tevinter-trained scribe’s, but the language was Common, addressed to Inquisitor Trevelyan rather than Dorian. He skimmed the contents — a request from Dorian’s father to arrange a meeting with a retainer — and looked back up. “You think it’s a trap?”

Dorian’s laugh sounded dry. “Who knows. The only time that my father’s motives aren’t convoluted is when they’re straightforwardly terrible.” Then he turned away from Bull, looking intently out the window. “To be quite frank, I’m more worried that he really does want to arrange a conversation. Dispatching a band of mercenaries is far simpler than — than what he might want from me alive.”

“But you want to go anyway,” Bull said neutrally.

“Of course not! _Vishante kaffas_ ,” Dorian cursed. Then he sighed. “Yes. I suppose I do. I’ve always been excellent at making poor choices with my life, after all. It may be my greatest talent.”

Bull raised an eyebrow and stifled an inappropriate remark about how much he’d appreciated Dorian’s choices last week. “You want company for the meeting, then?”

Dorian turned back to face Bull with another startled look. “It’ll be terribly boring for you. Probably nobody to kill at all — just some poor middleman with a long list of ways to blackmail me into whatever my father actually wants.”

Bull shrugged, not entirely sure why he’d offered, except that this was clearly touching some unspoken nerve in Dorian. “It’s not like I have anything better to do while the higher-ups draw their troop movements. Besides, there could be bears, and I know how much you hate dealing with them.”

“I am perfectly capable of killing bears,” Dorian glared. “I simply prefer not to be around for the stench when the Inquisitor cuts off their hides afterward, and she seems determined to do so, every single time.”

“Then we’ve got a plan. You’ll let me keep an eye on you, and I’ll deal with Dagna’s pout when she finds out we didn’t bring back any new leathers for her to craft.”

“Fine. _Kaffas._ You’re impossible.”

Bull laughed and allowed a hint of predatory gleam to filter into his expression. “Nah. I’m easy. All you’ve got to do is ask.”

 

…

 

True to Dorian’s word, Cullen confirmed that the Inquisitor and her advisors would be busy for the next several days, leaving Bull and Dorian time to travel down to Redcliffe. When Bull sketched out the reason for their journey, Cullen’s brows furrowed. “You think it’s going to be a problem?”

“For the Inquisition, or for Dorian?”

“Well, I meant the latter — I assume you’d tell all of us if you suspected the former.” Cullen’s face didn’t betray any further thoughts, but Bull had an inkling he was genuinely worried about the mage.

“It probably won’t be fun. If his family just wanted to send a message, they could have sent it to Skyhold; I’m expecting something more like a kidnapping attempt. Wouldn’t be the first time they ‘rescued’ him by force.”

“Wonderful. For all Dorian’s claims about Tevinter being the only civilized culture, I think I’m happier with our Fereldan mabari.”

Bull laughed. “Don’t say that around him; I’m pretty sure he’d still rather outrun kidnappers than clean up dog shit. Anyway, we’ll be fine. He’s got magic, and I’ve got a really intimidating glare.”

“You certainly do.” The faintest blush colored Cullen’s cheeks, and Bull could guess exactly where his thoughts had gone. He grinned, and slapped Cullen on the ass — the kind of friendly pat that he might give to one of his Chargers, except that he aimed it at some of last night’s worst welts. Cullen inhaled sharply, and his blush deepened. “I should, ah, really get back to my preparations.”

“Don’t let me distract you,” Bull said cheerfully, and he headed off to coordinate preparations to leave.

 

…

 

The first day of Bull’s journey with Dorian passed with almost laughable ease. Trevelyan had cleared the Hinterlands of its rifts and bandits, and her name was on everyone’s lips. When they found an inn for the night, the proprietor’s uncertainty about housing a Qunari and a Tevinter mage vanished as soon as they flashed the Inquisition’s banner. She added, in an apologetic voice, that the safer roads had led to an enormous increase in travelers, and if they were willing to share a room …

Bull glanced over to Dorian, who gave him an elegant shrug that seemed to say, _It’s a hovel either way, so your presence hardly makes much difference._ “We’ll take it,” Bull affirmed.

They stowed their gear in the room, then headed back downstairs for two generous bowls of mutton stew and still-steaming oat cakes. The serving girl blushed when she handed Bull his portion, her eyes straying down his bare chest, and he gave her a friendly grin and wink in return. There was absolutely nothing wrong with being objectified, in his opinion — especially when the person objectifying you smiled back in a way that promised a very enjoyable end to his evening.

After his more immediate hunger was sated, Bull got into conversation with the barkeeper, a woman with spectacular biceps, even more spectacular tits, and a glare that made it very clear that flirtation was not the way into her good graces. Bull liked her immediately. This far into the Fereldan countryside, he didn’t expect to discover any strategically useful secrets, but people like her helped him gauge where the Inquisition stood in popular opinion, and how they could improve that standing.

While Bull extracted stories from her, Dorian stood up and wandered over to a group of travelers playing Wicked Grace. Bull kept him in the corner of his vision, but he didn’t pay close attention until the lissome lad seated next to Dorian had practically relocated to Dorian’s lap. Too skinny for Dorian’s tastes, Bull suspected, but the mage hadn’t pushed the kid away either; he’d rest his hand on the boy’s neck sometimes, playing with his tightly coiled curls. To be honest, given the rate that Dorian was finishing his bottle of Antivan brandy, Bull was impressed that he could do all that and still manage a hand of cards.

Dorian had always played cards well — enough skill to keep his purse heavy at the end of the night, balanced with the kind of casual generosity that left his opponents cheerful about their losses. Even if he’d been drunk enough to lose more than he won, the Inquisition was well-funded enough that Bull wasn’t concerned. What did concern him was that, to Ben-Hassrath eyes, Dorian’s new companion was interested in more than a roll in the hay.

( _Boots better quality than his clothing, the sign of an attempt at disguise. Eyes that catalogued those patrons who might pose a threat, whether former soldiers or possible apostates. Ale spilled often but sipped cautiously, to feign greater intoxication. Watchful glances at Bull, more furtive when he realized that Bull was watching him back._ )

Bull could easily think up half a dozen possible reasons why Dorian might have been targeted for kidnapping or assassination — probably the latter, since any halfway credible attempt to kidnap a mage would require more than one agent, and no one else in the room seemed to be involved. Best guess was the Arl of Edgehall, since they weren’t far from his lands, and he’d objected very vocally to the presence of a Tevinter in the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Regardless, when an hour passed and Dorian showed no signs of getting up from the cards table, Bull began to worry that the kid would give up on subtlety and slip something into the man’s drink before Bull could stop him.

Well, nothing else to do but step in. He gave the friendly serving girl an apologetic shrug and tried not to think too hard about how good she would’ve looked on his lap. Then he rolled his shoulders, stood up, and walked over to Dorian, trying to convey an air of “possessive lover” rather than “threatening Qunari invader.”

Dorian glanced up when he arrived; he’d drunk enough that sweat glazed his cheekbones, warming the scented unguents that he applied every morning to his hair and skin. Bull could smell the familiar labdanum and cinnamon floating over the ubiquitous fog of Fereldan ale. Dorian looked Bull up and down. “You look far too sober for this trip,” he said finally, in a lazy drawl. “Pull up a chair!”

“Actually, I had other plans for us,” Bull said. With a smooth, painless movement, he slid Dorian’s companion off his lap and planted himself between the two of them. “I’m glad you’re having fun, but you know I don’t like to share.”

A pained expression floated across Dorian’s face. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Bull fought off the urge to thud his forehead onto the nearest wood beam. Not only was Dorian too soused to play along, but he seemed to think that Bull actually meant the statement, which was so wrong-headed that Bull wasn’t sure whether to laugh or shout. But that conversation could wait until morning. “Come on, Sparkler,” he urged, and he began to pull the man upright, pointedly ignoring the likely-an-assassin’s displeasure. “I’ve got some fun ideas for us.” He scooped up most of Dorian’s winnings, leaving enough stray coins that the remaining players wouldn’t complain about their abrupt departure.

Dorian started to sputter in protest, but Bull was already walking (well, dragging) him upstairs. After checking the room for any additional threats, he deposited Dorian on the bed, then turned to begin unstrapping his own harness for sleep.

“What in Andraste’s name was that,” Dorian asked flatly, every word crisp and precise. Bull looked back at him, and while Dorian still appeared drunk, he now radiated a cold rage. “You can’t possibly tell me that your delicate sensibilities couldn’t handle me flirting with a man in public. Maker’s mustache, Bull, I was about to have an evening of actual fun, with someone who didn’t live in the tiny fishbowl of Skyhold, and you had to step in like a clumsy oaf and kick it away from me.”

Bull let his harness drop to the floor and sat down next to Dorian. “He was trying to get you alone to kill you, not fuck you.”

“Wrong,” Dorian said. “He was going to fuck me, _then_ try to kill me, at which point I would have waved my hand and set his hair on fire. Really, if I refused to fuck anyone who wanted to kill me, I’d probably die celibate.”

Sometimes, the Iron Bull stepped back and thought about his life — about all the times when he’d had to use every fiber of his willpower and intelligence and strength to keep clinging to existence. Then he would think about the fact that Dorian Pavus was still alive, despite his complete and utter lack of any self-preservation instincts, and Bull had to fight the urge to shake his fists at the universe like a little babe.

He forced himself to breathe, instead, and considered the situation. It felt like he was missing some crucial piece of Dorian’s history, but interrogating the man about it now wouldn’t do any good. “Here’s what I’m seeing. You don’t want to go to the meeting in Redcliffe, but you feel like you have to go, and that kid offered a way out without making it your fault for escaping. Am I close?”

The hard silence in Dorian’s expression was a stronger confirmation than any words.

“Right.” He paused. “Because I’m a little bit confused. If all you wanted was to get fucked by someone who’d rough you up afterward, you could have just asked.”

Dorian let his head fall back on his pillow with a deep exhale. “I prefer to let my regrettable decisions stay separate from the rest of my life, thank you. That pretty boy wouldn’t have followed me back to Skyhold, unlike certain half-naked oafs of my acquaintance.”

“‘Regrettable decisions,’ huh? So you’re saying you didn’t enjoy the other night?”

“Oh, are we talking about that now?” Dorian shot back. “Your complete avoidance of the subject had me confused.”

“My mistake, apparently. Next time I bed you, I’ll be sure to talk about it loudly at every opportunity. Guess Cullen got me into a bad habit of discretion.”

“That’s not what I — you are _utterly infuriating_ ,” Dorian groaned. He reached up to unfasten the straps of his own shirt, fingers fumbling with intoxication. “Fine, then. Have your wicked Qunari way with me.”

“No, thanks.”

Dorian’s fingers paused. “Ah. So all you wanted me to do was humiliate myself by asking; you didn’t want to —“

With a growl, Bull pinned Dorian to the bed, pulling his wrists above his head. “Oh, I want, little Vint. You have no idea of all the things that I want to do to you. But when I fuck you the way I want, it’s not going to be while you’re too drunk to know what you’re asking for.”

Pinned down by Bull’s body, Dorian had begun to tremble, his eyes fluttering shut. He hitched his hips up, an unconsciously needy gesture, and the contact made his arousal unmistakeable. “Stop being so damnably _nice_ ,” he breathed.

“No.”

Then Bull lowered himself to lie beside Dorian, their limbs still slotted together like a tangle of tree roots. He slowed his own breathing to draw sleep near, and though Dorian squirmed and twitched and tried in vain to rub his erection against an answering touch, he never asked Bull to let him go.

…

 

They woke to the echo of the innkeeper haranguing her scullion, a shrill but muted sound that faded back into the background when Bull tilted his head to look at the man still sprawled atop him. Dorian blinked owlishly, hair mussed and expression unguarded; a wrinkle in his forehead meant he was probably feeling the effects of last night’s drinking, and the hardness nudging into Bull’s thigh meant he also had other things on his mind.

Well, Bull had always been a firm believer in rewarding good behavior. “Want some help with that?” he murmured, shifting his body to add just a tease of friction.

“ _Please,_ ” Dorian breathed.

Bull wrapped one arm around Dorian — not tight enough to trap, just to explore the firm lines of the other man’s body beneath his half-unfastened clothes. This early, Dorian felt warm and pliant under Bull’s fingers. He hadn’t yet assumed his usual shield of charming arrogance, and Bull felt a surge of protective affection, reminded of nothing so much as a sleepy kitten.

Not quite so innocent as a kitten, though. Bull snaked his free hand around to Dorian’s cock and gave it a single stroke from balls to tip, grinning in satisfaction when Dorian arched into the touch. The number of buckles on Dorian’s clothing was absurd, but Bull eventually managed to unfasten his inconveniently tight trousers one-handed, and Dorian’s sharp gasp at the first touch of fingers on flesh made the effort entirely worthwhile. “You’re remarkably dextrous, considering,” Dorian said, shifting to allow easier access.

“Considering what? My thick, meaty, blunt … fingers?” Bull gave Dorian’s cock a little extra twist at the final word.

“Brute,” Dorian shot back, though the breathless fondness of his voice belied the word.

Bull tilted his head in mock contemplation. “Yeah, I can do that, if you’re gonna insist.” With an easy twist, he scooped up Dorian and flipped the two of them over, then tugged Dorian’s hands behind him until they were trapped between the bed and the small of his back. Easy enough to get free, if he wanted — but judging from the wide black pupils of Dorian’s eyes and the unconscious swipe of his tongue over his lips, getting free was the last thing on Dorian’s mind. “Much better,” Bull agreed, and he leaned down to kiss Dorian breathless.

He bracketed Dorian with his body as they kissed, enjoying the way that Dorian’s lips parted to let him in, all his hesitance melted into pliant need. Dorian’s mouth tasted of sleep and last night’s ale, but all Bull cared about was the slick warmth of his tongue and the sharp pressure of his teeth as they grazed over Bull’s exploring tongue. It was, Bull realized distantly, their first real kiss, and fuck, but he hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

When Bull finally pulled a few inches away to take a breath, releasing Dorian’s lips with a quiet, wet pop, Dorian was panting for breath. He opened his mouth as if to make a clever remark, then simply exhaled in a quiet whine. Bull chuckled; much as he enjoyed their banter, speechless was a damn fine look for the Vint. Propping himself up on one elbow, he bent down to bite Dorian’s glorious bronze sculpture of a collarbone, right where it peeked out from under his mussed shirt. “I’m thinking we continue this with fewer clothes?”

Dorian’s lips crooked into a half-smile. “That is a truly marvelous idea.”

After a few slightly awkward minutes of unbuckling, unfastening, and peeling away sweat-damp fabric, Bull had the two of them nude. Rather than resuming the same position right away, though, he paused. “How do you feel about being fucked?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow and wordlessly rolled himself onto his stomach on the bed, arching up his exquisite ass like a welcome banner. “Rather amenable at the moment.”

Bull laughed. “Nice. You have any —?”

“Here.” Dorian waggled his fingers over Bull’s palm — Bull was sure it had more occult significance than “waggling,” but he’d be hard pressed to say what — and a generous dollop of something slippery plopped into his hand, accompanied by the scent of cedar and a muted squelch.

“Not exactly what I meant, but I’m not gonna complain.” Bull slicked up his fingers and prepared to breach him, but paused when Dorian shifted his thighs, flexing the honey-dark curves of his ass. “Fuck,” Bull breathed. “You look edible.”

Dorian started to laugh, then choked when Bull grazed his teeth over the globe of one cheek, licking up the taste of sweat and the faint charcoal aroma of Dorian’s magic. He let out a low, urgent groan. “I thought you were going to —“

“Mmm-hmmm,” Bull hummed against his skin, slipping a fingertip into Dorian’s entrance as he mapped his ass with long, lazy licks. Once he felt the muscle start to relax, he pressed deeper and crooked his finger; a deep shudder down Dorian’s spine told him when he’d found the right spot. As he stretched Dorian further, adding more fingers, he nibbled at the tender juncture between ass and thigh, breathing in deeply. He’d never had a chance to notice it this vividly, but the lingering scent of Dorian’s pyromancy sent whispers of _dragon_ floating through Bull’s senses. “ _Ataashi_ ,” he said huskily into his skin, then withdrew his fingers and raised himself up. “I am gonna fuck you so hard that ridiculous mustache falls off your face.”

“You love it,” Dorian smirked. His breathy voice betrayed his own urgency.

“Yeah,” Bull admitted. Then he guided his cock into Dorian, and the sweet tightness of his hole, the taut lines of Dorian’s thighs as he urged Bull deeper still, the tremble in Dorian’s arms as he let Bull pound into him in an angle to make him gasp and keen, the rigid readiness of Dorian’s own dick when Bull reached around to stroke it, the flow of their bodies as fucking became a sweat-slick mutual dance, the choked _ah, ah, ah_ of Dorian’s breath, the liquid looseness when his body finally accepted Bull’s full length as if he’d always belonged inside him, the filthy sound of Bull's balls slapping Dorian’s ass with each stroke, the full-body shudder when he grazed his thumbnail over Dorian’s nipple, the crescendo that built inside him until he felt like a dam bursting with spring rains, the burst of Dorian’s climax with a guttural scream and a clench that dragged Bull’s own orgasm out of him in waves that shook him like thunder —

Neither of them needed words.

 

…

 

They left the inn late that morning, both wincing a little as they mounted their horses. Their coupling seemed to have loosened something in Dorian; while he still tensed whenever something reminded them of the journey’s end, Bull could distract him with conversation. They reminisced about warmer climates — “ _Bananas_ ,” Dorian sighed wistfully — and compared the ways that the Imperium and the Qunari spun wildly divergent tales about the same shared conflicts. By the time they entered Redcliffe, Bull had almost allowed himself to relax.

But when they arrived at the tavern, something was wrong. The knowledge flashed through Bull’s mind just as Dorian pushed open the door, and a split second later, its cause registered: the normal bustle of a tavern was completely absent from inside. Too late to stop now, though.

“Uh-oh. Nobody’s here. This doesn’t bode well.” The wrinkle in Dorian’s forehead belied his light tone, and it only deepened when a man strode down the tavern stairs, dressed in the finery of a posh Tevinter.

“Father,” Dorian said flatly, and oh, this was going to be even more fucked up than Bull had feared.

Their relationship was clearly, as Josie would have put it, “strained.” Dorian and his father hurled words at each other in icy-clear Common, an exhibition match of feints and parries for an audience of one.

Bull kept his own mouth shut — Tevinter family politics were _far_ above his pay grade — until Dorian swung the passionate force of his gaze in his direction. “Pay attention, Bull. I want a witness. I want someone to hear the truth.”

“Dorian, there’s no need to —“

“My father disapproves of the fact that I prefer men.” Dorian waited a beat, and it took Bull a moment to realize that no further punchline would come.

“That’s _it_? I mean, I prefer to fuck redheads if I’ve got the choice, but that didn’t stop me from fucking y—“

Dorian silenced a Bull with a glare, but his father clearly followed the words to their accurate conclusion. “I should have known that’s what this was about.”

“No,” Dorian whirled back on him. “You don’t get to make those assumptions. You know nothing about Bull, and you know even less about me.”

Then Dorian explained: a family so fixated on their vision that they’d tried to hack off Dorian’s limbs to fit the cut of their coat. Blood magic, the worst kind — the kind of magic that changed who you were, warped your soul until you forgot things were ever any different. It was everything that the Qun said Tevinter would be, and everything that Dorian had insisted he wasn’t.

Bull felt the familiar, constantly suppressed fear of losing himself creeping into his vision. He wanted to run from this _bas saarebas_ , and even more, he wanted to pull the greataxe off his back and start swinging.

But apparently that wasn’t showing on his face, because Dorian’s father turned to him next. “From what I know of the Qunari, you should respect our position. Don’t you breed your own people for desirable traits? It’s how we have perfected our lineage, and for Dorian to turn his back on that duty —”

Bull couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Never thought I’d have to explain to a grown man where babies come from, but today’s just my lucky day. Look, breeding is quick and easy: close your eyes, think of whatever turns you on, and stick your seed in someone. If you’re lucky, she’ll even be your type. _But after that, you get up and leave._ You don’t tie two people together for life because you think their kids would be cute, and you sure as shit don’t use blood magic to make it happen.”

“I should have known better than to expect an ox to understand,” Pavus said, and that was it. Bull was done with magisters and their blood magic, and he was very much done with this man who could make Dorian’s face twist with such deep hurt.

“Hey, Dorian,” he said lightly.

“What?” Dorian snapped.

“Looks like your dad bought out this inn for the day. You want to go check out the empty bedrooms and have some really loud, really dirty sex?”

“That sounds like a marvelously good idea.”

Bull put his arm around Dorian to not-so-gently guide him past Pavus and up the stairs, and the magister gave them both a sorrowful look. “I never meant to drive you to the Inquisition — to this.”

Bristling, Dorian stepped out of Bull’s hold and advanced on his father. “You didn't. I joined the Inquisition because it's the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have known that.”

“Once I had a son who trusted me — a trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

Bull watched Dorian’s eyes widen and his muscles go slack; he’d never seen him look so helpless. That trick always worked, Bull knew well; switch from the offensive to a show of vulnerability, and you’d pull the rug out from under your target. If he were a better man — if he were a _human_ , filled with the veneration for one’s parents that most humans seemed to hold so dear — then he might have let the trick succeed.

He wasn’t, and he wouldn’t.

“You want your son to forgive you?” he asked, raising himself to his full stature. “Then look him in the eye and tell him that you wouldn’t do it again. Tell him that if you’d succeeded — if you’d butchered your slaves to make Dorian lust after tits and cunts, and it worked — that you’d regret your choices right now.” Pavus said nothing, and Bull took it as victory. “He can’t forgive you for what you did if you _aren’t even sorry_.”

For another heartbreaking moment, Dorian still didn’t move. He simply watched his father, waiting for any scrap of denial, trembling as the silence lengthened and Pavus couldn’t respond. Finally, he whirled away and began to mount the stairs, turning back only once he’d reached the top. “You want to hear my voice, Father? Stick around in the building, and you’ll get to hear plenty of it. I’m sure you’ve always wanted to know how it sounds for your son to get fucked in the arse by a Qunari cock.”

“Dorian, you don’t need to resort to —“ But Dorian had disappeared, and the Iron Bull followed him upstairs without delay. He didn’t wait to see whether Dorian’s father was leaving the building; right then, he didn’t particularly care.

 

…

 

He found Dorian in the first bedroom, splashing water on his face with sharp movements that avoided smudging the kohl around his eyes. After a moment, he looked up at Bull. “Here to collect on your offer?”

Bull shrugged. “Well, after all that, I wasn’t exactly going to leave you alone.”

“Ah. Afraid I’d jump out the second-floor window in an ineffectual suicide attempt?”

“That, or you might do something _really_ drastic, like shave your mustache.”

Dorian shuddered theatrically. “Maker save me from such a tragedy.” Then he sighed, and the moment of levity tumbled away again. “I will admit that I’m tempted to do something terribly indecorous, like start bemoaning my sordid history — the poor little magister, never really loved as a child, his naive trust in his parents shattered by betrayal. Not that rehashing the past will do me any good, mind you. So to avoid that tawdry outcome, I’d rather distract myself by other means.” His eyes narrowed. “Let me be perfectly clear: I want you to hurt me, the way you hurt Cullen. I want you to hurt me until every miserable moment of this excursion fades in comparison to the deafening pain. Understood?”

Bull considered the request. Playing _issqun-antaam_ with someone in this much emotional distress was rarely a good idea, but shit, he wanted this. He wanted the reminder that the blood magic hadn’t broken Dorian, and he wanted to _hurt_ something. “You remember your watchword?” he asked finally.

“Katoh.” Already Dorian’s posture had relaxed, the weight of decision removed from his shoulders.

“Good boy. Now take your clothes off for me.”

Dorian obeyed. Bull suspected that if Dorian wanted, he could have stripped like an exotic dancer, teasing out the experience with coy looks and flashes of skin. But he hadn’t asked for that, and he rather liked the raw honesty that had emerged instead — fingers that half-trembled as they undid buckles, a nose that wrinkled in annoyance when his greaves caught on his ankles as he tugged them loose. As Dorian undressed, Bull let his mind contemplate the resources on hand; a Fereldan inn likely wouldn’t stock its bedrooms with oils or salves, let alone more unusual tools of pleasure, but his tama always did say he was resourceful.

Soon enough, Dorian stood naked, looking at him expectantly. “I’m not going to tie you up,” Bull said, reaching for the thick leather strap that normally looped over Dorian’s right shoulder. “You’re not used to this. Don’t want you getting in over your head and forgetting how to get out. But you’re going to hold this with both hands and stay still, and if you let go, I stop. Got it?”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I can take whatever you have to give.”

Ah, defiance. Bull _liked_ it when they got mouthy. He gave Dorian a grim half-smile and rolled his shoulders, letting himself loom above the other man. “You say that because you don’t know, pretty little ‘Vint. I’ve broken down more cocky mages than I can count. I’ve seen what it takes to break _me_. If you think you’re any better, it’s because you don’t know what pain can be like.”

There — a twitch of Dorian’s eyes, the flinch of fear taking hold. But his drawl didn’t change. “Right now, the only pain I’m feeling is painful boredom. Perhaps the novelty of having a roof over your head is making you go soft?”

Bull growled and slapped Dorian’s face, whip-fast, and Dorian gasped and let out a barely audible whimper. Then he composed his face with visible effort. “Really? The big bad Qunari spy is just going to slap my face? If that’s what you call torture, I’m not surprised that Seheron went so poorly for you.”

The thick velvet red of dragon’s blood began to trickle across Bull’s vision.

_She had only been fourteen, a sweet girl who trusted her boyfriend when he told her to take a package across town. When they caught her smuggling gaatlok, her only true crime was her poor judgment. But she was perceptive enough to know the names of her boyfriend’s contacts, and she was stupid enough to think that keeping his secrets would be noble. She resisted through hunger and fatigue, through branding irons and steel-tipped floggers. Only when he began to cut off her fingers, an inch at a time, did she begin to sob and babble and beg. He found out later that she had been learning the lute from her mother._

He shook his head, trying to cast away the memory, and grabbed Dorian’s chin to force the mage to meet his eyes. “Listen to me. I am not going to let you manipulate me. You want me to hurt you, I will, but I’ll do it at my pace.” Bull took a deep breath and fought to keep the battle-rage at bay. Control was normally easier to maintain, but when his anger had already been simmering from the magister’s conversation — “I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in hurting you, Dorian, but I won’t let myself _injure_ you. So if that’s what you want, get out now.”

Dorian’s glare could have cut glass, but he didn’t move to leave.

“Good,” Bull huffed. “Now get on the bed, hold onto the strap, and keep your eyes closed.” Then he began to prepare.

Pain, Bull had long known, was like music. The pains of battle — scattered gashes, aching muscles, over-extended joints — were like a tavern’s drinking song: loud, cacophonous, and energizing, with their fair share of morning-after regrets. Other pain could pulse and pound like a drumbeat, its sequence of harsh thumps and foreboding silence impossible to resist; the Ben-Hassrath were experts at that particular song. But for the expert at _issqun-antaam_ , pain was a symphony. It began with a sweet melody, light and bearable enough to lull the listener, but as the harmonies layered and the volume increased, it mounted unexpectedly into a passion so intense that one could focus on nothing else. The symphony would rise and fall, taking its captive with it, and it told a story that danced from deafening crescendos to the short, trembling warble of a single voice.

(Cullen had proven himself the best kind of listener to Bull’s symphonies, an audience rapt with attention for each new stanza. It was one of his most intoxicating traits.)

Today, Bull knew, would not be that kind of symphony. Dorian wanted to be deafened, not seduced. After a few minutes of poking around the room, Bull had gathered a length of worn rope and one of Dorian’s thin leather fastening belts and set them on the side table. In another cabinet, beneath a large round of cheese, he found a small cruet of oil and a box of the salted herbs that Fereldans sprinkled on their bread; the oil was hardly fresh, but it would serve. Then he grabbed two pillows from the head of the bed and turned to Dorian, who’d been waiting with eyes shut and an expression of impatience. “On your hands and knees,” Bull said sharply, and Dorian jerked into obedience. Then Bull slid the pillows under Dorian’s hips, pressed down between his shoulder blades until he bent his face to the bed’s surface, and guided Dorian’s knees apart. The man looked obscene like this; his dusky entrance was in full view, framed by the perfect globes of Dorian’s ass. Bull allowed himself to imagine all the things he could do to that ass while his fingers unbraided a length from one end of the rope, separating it into several hemp strands. Once finished, he let his fingers trail the path down Dorian’s crevice and linger over Dorian’s pucker. “I’m really gonna enjoy breaking you,” he growled.

Then he took a step back, grasped the rope flogger firmly, and aimed for the first blow.

Dorian — unlike Cullen, let alone Bull himself — was unused to pain. Even the relatively soft strands of rope made him shudder as they turned his olive skin rosy, and by the time that Bull graduated to a leather strap, he was breathing harsh as a bellows, clenching and squirming as if to dodge the next inevitable blow. The first firm slap of leather on his upper thighs, previously untouched, finally startled a cry of pain out of Dorian. After that, the dam had broken, and he couldn’t keep himself silent any longer; each strike forced a sharp keen from him, an _ah, ah, ah, ah_ that echoed the thud of leather on flesh.

When Dorian’s cries grew wet with silent tears, Bull took a brief break, appreciating the way that Dorian’s muscles clenched in anticipation of the blow that never came. Dorian’s posture had lost some of its wantonness — his ass sank down into the pillows, and his thighs had drifted together in unconscious protection of his tender hole — but Bull could still see his cock hanging soft and unaroused. Disappointing, that, but not surprising; Bull had never really expected that pure pain would turn Dorian on. Regardless, it made Bull’s choices simpler.

Working in silence to keep Dorian guessing, he repositioned the belt so that the buckle end hung free, and he struck Dorian’s ass with one blow on each cheek, swift and carefully aimed. The brass buckle dug in brutally where the leather had merely bruised, shocking the remaining control out of Dorian, and he screamed in response. Bull grinned and belted him again, two more strokes just below the first ones, leaving four lines slashed with the wet red of broken skin.

“No, no, no, no,” Dorian whimpered, only half audible.

Bull paused again. “‘No’ isn’t your watchword,” he said flatly. In the silence that followed, Dorian’s whole body trembled, but the word never came.

He picked the rope flogger back up, whipping it across Dorian’s upper back in swift figure eights. “You know, I can keep this up for days.” He let the strands of rope dig deeper, enjoying the way that Dorian’s bruised ass clenched and twitched in sympathy with his back. “You might have asked for this, but you’re fighting to keep it all in a box — a nice little experience for you to observe. A _distraction_. But you gave me control, and I’m going to use it for what I want. And I don’t just want you hurting. I want you torn into bloody little pieces, until you can’t remember how it felt to taste anything but pain.”

Setting the rope back down, Bull grabbed a handful of the salt mixture and rubbed it roughly onto the raw wounds on Dorian’s ass. The sudden agony dragged another scream out of Dorian’s throat, and his whole body jerked away from Bull. “ _Kaffas, pedicabo ego tū et irrumabo, kaffas, kaffas,_ ” he yelled.

Bull chuckled at the Tevene expletives. “Not until you give me what I want.” Then he smacked him on the salted wounds, setting off another yelp and stream of invectives, and kept spanking his bruised and broken ass in a steady rhythm. When Dorian’s twitching became too violent, Bull pressed a hand down on the small of his back, pinning him in place like a butterfly, without hesitating for a single stroke. “You’re mine, pretty ‘Vint,” he growled. “Stop fighting, or I’ll make it hurt even worse.”

If he hadn’t been watching Dorian closely, Bull would have missed it — a tiny nod and a defeated whisper. “All right.”

“Good boy.” It still wasn’t over, but with the lingering sting of the salt and bruises, Dorian wouldn’t come down from the pain for a while. Bull grabbed the oil jug and poured a generous puddle into his hand, then smeared it on the inside of Dorian’s thighs and tugged them together to form a tight, slippery vise. “Now just keep being good, and I’ll take care of you.”

Bull wasn’t ashamed to admit that while Dorian might not be feeling aroused, he couldn’t help reacting to the sight of a naked, gorgeous man submitting to his control. He tugged off his clothing, his cock already hard as iron, and didn’t hesitate before plunging into the sweet crevice between Dorian’s thighs.

Dorian’s body had gone limp for him, a golden marionette for Bull to fuck. Bull held Dorian’s thighs together as he pumped between them; the unresisting flesh felt hot and slick around his cock, so damn good that he knew he wouldn’t last long. He was gripping Dorian’s legs tightly enough to bruise, on top of the mottled stripes and bruises that decorated his ass and upper thighs, but the other man no longer tried to avoid the waves of pain that came with each thrust. Instead, he breathed deeply and trembled, so sweetly broken that Bull shuddered with the power of it.

The familiar sounds of hard fucking filled the room — the creak of the bed, the choked gasps from Dorian, the squelch of slippery skin on skin — and Bull could feel the head of his dick rubbing against Dorian’s balls and the base of his cock each time he bottomed out. He repositioned, straddling Dorian so that his knees could keep the mage’s legs clamped shut, and reached one oil-slick hand underneath Dorian to add more direct stimulation. The soft limpness of Dorian’s own cock only turned him on more in this state; Dorian was his, his to fuck or hurt or command.

“You look so fucking hot,” he murmured hoarsely in Dorian’s ear. “So gorgeous when you’re defeated.” His hips found a brutal rhythm as they snapped forward and back. “You’re going to take this, little ‘Vint, because it’s already mine. Your pleasure doesn’t belong to you any more.” He gave Dorian’s cock a few little twists and felt it start to harden from sheer stimulation. Bull was close, so close, the intoxication of power flooding him with heady bliss.

Dorian gasped for breath, his throat wet with sobbing, and started to speak. It took a couple tries for him to get the word out:

“ _Katoh_.”

To Bull’s lingering shame, it took a couple of seconds for the word to register in his ears, long enough for Dorian to repeat it in a more urgent voice — “ _katoh._ ” The instant that he understood, though, he scrambled back, skidding off the bed in a graceless fall that would have been funny at any other time.

 _Shit, shit, shit_ echoed through his head. He’d gone too deep, let himself forget about Dorian’s needs in the rush to sate his own. Forcing his voice into something resembling calm, he looked at the man still spread across the bed. “Okay, Dorian, I’m listening. It’s okay. Tell me what you need right now.”

Dorian didn’t answer right away. At first, a terrified part of Bull’s brain wondered if he was catatonic, but then he saw: Dorian was peeling his fingers off the leather strap he’d been gripping, flexing his joints one by one with arthritic slowness. When his hands had let go fully, he pushed himself up, then crawled up to the back of the bed, wincing visibly when he sat on his ass and wrapped his hands protectively around himself. “I’m fine,” he said in a low voice.

“Dorian, I don’t even have to be a Ben-Hassrath to know that’s a lie.” Bull knelt beside the bed and tried to will Dorian to let him help. “I’d like to join you up there, if you’re willing. Touch usually helps, and if you say no to anything, I’ll back off. That okay?”

After a moment of hesitation, Dorian nodded his head once. Bull climbed back onto the bed, careful and slow, until he sat back against the headboard. He wrapped his arm around Dorian’s shoulders, above the impact area of the flogging, and gently guided Dorian to lean on him and take some of the weight off his tender ass.

Sitting this still, Bull could feel the faint tremor that shook Dorian’s body. He felt furious at himself for not even knowing whether he’d been shivering during their fucking; he no longer trusted himself to have noticed either way.

When Dorian said nothing for several long minutes, Bull spoke. “We don’t have to talk about this now, but I can help you better if I know what went wrong for you.”

Another silence followed, but this time, Dorian broke it. Bull could feel the vibrations of his voice as he spoke into Bull’s chest without looking up. “You did what I asked you to. I suppose I should have known better than to think I could handle it.”

Something about his flat, calm tone pierced Bull’s heart; this wasn’t the first time Dorian had let those thoughts color his mind, he was sure. “No, _kadan_ , that’s crap. I’m the one who failed. You did exactly the right thing by telling me your watchword when you needed me to stop.”

“Terribly sorry about ruining the mood with that,” Dorian said; his voice was light, but Bull suspected it wasn’t actually a joke.

“Well, don’t be. You know what’s worse than having to stop things for a watchword? Finding out afterwards that your partner wanted to say it but didn’t, and you were fucking someone unwilling. I’ve gotta know that I can trust you to say it if you need to, and you showed me that you would.”

(He wondered how much Dorian would read into his implications, his silences. He’d never chosen to take someone against their will, sure, but when he first got to the South, he found out the hard way that some people didn’t think they _could_ say no to a burly, savage Qunari.)

When Dorian spoke again, his voice sounded distant, as if he were talking to himself. “I didn’t mind when I wasn’t enjoying it. I _wanted_ to hurt, not just play-act at it. But then you touched me, and it all got tangled into a knot. I was everything my father feared: an animal who couldn’t even control my own arousal.”

“Aww, fuck, Dorian.” Bull stroked Dorian’s shoulders, trying to choose the right words. “Listen to me. I need you to remember that I’m the one who fucked up. Taking a beating like you did, it gets your head in a really weird place, and it’s my job to pay attention to that. You were being so good for me. So damn good.” He stroked Dorian’s face until he found the fragile hollow behind his ear, then rested his thumb there in reassurance.

Dorian breathed in, then out. The rabbit-quick pace of his heartbeat had slowed to something less frantic, and Bull inhaled with him, memorizing his scent: traces of almond oil, the bitter salt of cooling sweat, and the dry ashes of a clean fire.

“So what now?” Dorian asked at last.

Bull shrugged. “That depends on you. We could go back to what we were doing, just dial down the intensity a little. We can find some dinner and turn in for the night, keep it friendly. Or I can leave you alone, if you need some space to work things out.”

“Mmm,” Dorian said non-committally. “Or I could just raid the bar downstairs for several strong drinks and forget any of this happened.”

Bull paused, weighing his options. He knew, just as he knew Dorian did, that alcohol wouldn’t make any of this shit go away. But he’d already made one mistake that evening, letting himself start a scene that intense when his emotions were running crazy, and it seemed like the last thing Dorian needed right now was someone else trying to make his decisions. “Lead the way, big guy,” he said at last, gesturing at the door. “But I think we left the door open downstairs, so you might want to put on some breeches.”

 

…

 

Bull woke with the dawn to find Dorian curled up against him, kitten-like. Neither the innkeeper nor the elder Pavus had disturbed the silent building while Dorian plumbed the depths of the inn’s cellars, so Bull had figured they were safe to spend the night. He’d drunk with Dorian, but not enough to blur his memories; after what happened in the bedroom, he couldn’t risk losing control again. So when morning came, he lay there, sober, in the glow of the sun’s first sliver. He looked down at the snoring Tevinter clinging to his chest and tried to figure out just how deeply he’d been compromised.

Once Dorian had slept off the worst of his hangover, they began the journey back to Skyhold. Dorian was already complaining about his bruised ass before their horses left the walls of Redcliffe, so Bull doubled back for a couple of extra-strong elfroot potions, and they were on their way. The entire journey home felt subdued; Dorian kept his mouth unusually quiet, but he appeared introspective rather than upset. Bull tried not to dwell on what that silence entailed.

They stayed that night at the same inn they’d visited on the way in, and — sure enough — the skinny boy from the first time around was there again. He set down a mug of ale in front of Dorian, while the mage sat at the bar next to Bull. "Apology ale for the other night? I didn't realize you were, uh, taken." Bull had to give him credit for having the balls to try twice; the kid's quirked grin was remarkably charming for someone who was clearly taking a second shot at assassination by poison.

This time, though, Dorian didn't even bother to switch on his smile for a friendly refusal. "So sorry, but I have a policy against accepting drinks from boys on the payroll of corrupt lords with a violent mistrust of anyone from Tevinter. I'm sure you'll understand."

The boy froze. "Oh. I don't — I'm not —"

Dorian sighed without even the hint of a smile. "Please don't think you're too pretty for me to kill if you try to make this violent. Just run along home, would you?" He waved his hand in a dismissive shooing motion, and the boy blinked twice, then literally ran out the tavern door.

Bull took a couple swigs of his own ale before speaking. "Never thought I'd see you too distracted to flirt."

"Yes, well, I apologize that I'm not at my best." Abruptly, Dorian pushed himself away from the bar. "I believe I'll be retiring early tonight."

Bull watched him step away, distracted for a moment by the truly excellent view of Dorian's leather pants from behind, but he followed quickly after.

 

...

 

As soon as Bull had closed and bolted the door behind him, Dorian's tense posture dissolved into weariness. He pulled off his boots and went to sit on the bed, hugging his arms to his chest in a strangely vulnerable gesture. "You all right?" Bull asked.

"No. Not really." Dorian pursed his lips and exhaled, then met Bull's gaze. "He's a good man, my father. Deep down. He taught me that principle is important. He cares for me, in his way, but he won't ever change. I can't forgive him for what he did. I won't."

"Damn right," Bull agreed. "You said he tried to ... change you?" Memories of his own re-education flooded his mind; the thought of pretty, careless Dorian undergoing those procedures sent a stab through his gut.

Dorian nodded. "Out of desperation. I wouldn't put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside." He twisted away from Bull as he spoke, speaking at the empty window. "But would you like to know the most shameful part of the story?"

 _Not really,_ Bull thought, but he said, "All right."

"For the — the ritual, my father didn't have to hunt me down in a dark alley and knock me unconscious. I was living with a friend, and one day, my father simply showed up at the Abrexis estate with his personal guard. He walked straight into the bedroom where Varius and I were entangled and said, 'Dorian, it's time to come home. Let's not make a fuss about this.' Because he knew I'd go with him rather than make a scene. So he took me home, and he kept me there for three months." Dorian took a deep breath. "Trust me when I say that I possess magical abilities formidable enough that a simple country estate could not have kept me captive, if I had truly attempted to leave."

"But you didn't try."

"I didn't even try. My parents told me that they were working to find a compromise, that they were so proud of my work for Alexius. They told me that I could still become Archon some day, once I proved that my 'eccentricities' were behind me. Never mind that I'd make a bloody terrible Archon; I still kept trying, kept hoping that if they saw me as a respectable adult, everything would work out somehow.

"One night, my mother came to my room, very late. She wasn't the type for bedtime stories, or really any overt displays of vulgar affection, so I remember wondering what was wrong — perhaps she'd gotten bad news. She sat down on the edge of my bed, and she just said, 'Darling, you know that your father and I only want the best for you.' And even then, damn them, I believed it.

"The next day was when my father tried the ritual. I’m ashamed to say that I didn't even comprehend what he was doing until our kitchen maid's blood was filling the air in a red haze, and I saw that same crimson reflected in my father's eyes." Dorian still hadn't looked at Bull once during the story, and the only outward sign of tension in him was the faint trembling of his left hand.

"That moment of terror was when I realized something that had never quite registered to me in all my years of learning and reflection. Love _isn't_ doing the best thing for someone, like my mother had said. That's just part of being a decent person. Love is when you don't care what's best any more, because all you want is for the person you love to be with you and be happy." His voice cracked on the word "happy."

Bull couldn't keep himself away any more. He knelt on the bed, hugging Dorian tight to his own chest. "Oh, _kadan_."

Dorian didn't resist Bull's embrace; neither did he weep. "That's what you call Cullen," he observed.

"Yeah, well," Bull hesitated. Truth be told, the term hadn't been a conscious decision. But in its wake, the word still fit, comfortable in the space between them. "I'm a big guy. Pretty sure my heart's got space for more than one _kadan_ in it."

A small huff left Dorian's lips; it could have been a laugh or a scoff. Then he was silent for another long moment. "The things you did to me, in Redcliffe. I suppose that's what you want out of your ... liaisons?"

Bull chose not to call him on the non sequitur. "Not necessarily. I'm pretty simple. When I care about someone, I like giving them what they need, and that was what I thought you needed then. But in general? I think you've got a lot more need for someone who wants to have you the way you are. Someone who looks at you and sees someone who made a damn brave series of choices. Who did the right thing, even when people told him it was wrong. You're an amazing guy, Dorian, and I don't mind being the guy who tells you that until you start to believe it."

"Of course I know I'm amazing," Dorian said in a light, ironic voice.

"Of course you do," Bull agreed. With gentle, cautious movements, he turned Dorian's face back toward himself and kissed his lips. "But I’m still going to tell it to you a few more times."

 

...

 

Dorian remained pensive for the journey back to Skyhold, but the silence between them felt less grim after that night. When they finally arrived home, Bull had barely unloaded his packs from his horse when a slender, hooded figure appeared at his side. "A word, Iron Bull?" Leliana asked politely.

As soon as they'd retreated to a private room, Leliana began without preamble. "You know that we're preparing to besiege Adamant Fortress. There's no way in but brute force, and our losses are expected to be heavy."

Bull nodded. He wasn't privy to all the War Table conversations, but he'd gathered or deduced that much.

"While you were gone, we received a message from the Ben-Hassrath. They're proposing an alliance."

"An alliance. With the Inquisition." He didn't even try to keep the skepticism from his face. "You sure the letter wasn't forged?"

"Very. I was suspicious too, so I made certain inquiries. The offer appears genuine. If we can make this work, the use of Qunari war machines — even a single shipment of gaatlok — could make all the difference to our forces."

"Yeah." Bull found his pulse oddly quickened. Writing reports to send the Ben-Hassrath was one thing, but he hadn't expected them to be so ... involved.

Leliana passed him the letter. "Read it over and let me know if anything seems unusual. I haven't yet approached the Inquisitor with this one; I thought you'd do a better job of addressing any concerns she might have."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you're not worried about joining forces with the scary bull-men?"

An odd expression crossed her face — something wistful, and very nearly unguarded. "I once spent a great deal of time with your Arishok. I don't presume to understand all his motives, but I trust his blade to guard my side."

Well then. "You keep surprising me, Sister Nightingale." Bull shook his head in amusement, but he tucked the letter into a pouch to read privately. "I'll be in touch."

 

...

 

As the Iron Bull expected, Trevelyan agreed to the plan and decided that taking the next step — a joint mission to stop a shipment of red lyrium — had to take precedence before they left for Adamant. After some consultation, they put together a small team well-suited to work with the Qunari agents: Bull, the Inquisitor, Blackwall (who would follow orders with little fuss), and Varric (whose own encounters in Kirkwall had given him some familiarity with Qunlat). They departed the next morning for the Storm Coast, sending advance messages by raven, and Bull barely had time to check in on Dorian's well-being before leaving.

He did take Cullen aside for just a moment, in the gray pre-dawn before they left. "Can you keep an eye on Dorian while I'm gone, _kadan_? He's had a rough week."

"Of course," Cullen said, clearly wondering about the details but not pushing. Then he licked his lower lip, a quick cat-like motion, and quirked a small smile. "Did you ever have that conversation with him?"

Laughter rumbled up Bull's throat. "Not a conversation, exactly. But if you want to put more than your eyes on him while I'm gone, be my guest."

Cullen's head tilted, amused. "You're going to have to tell me more about what happened."

"Oh, I will," Bull promised, "once I'm somewhere where I can demonstrate exactly how it went down." He reached toward Cullen's face and stroked the outer shell of his ear, a soft touch to make his skin shiver. "Take care, _kadan_."

Cullen's eyes darted around — they stood in an alcove of the castle gates, invisible to the rest of the gathering party — before he pressed a kiss to Bull's lips. "Come home," he said simply.

Bull nodded. "I will."

 

...

 

The mission started off badly, and then it got worse.

Bull hadn't thought that a conversation with Gatt could leave him bristling; the kid was hot-tempered but fiercely loyal. When Bull had turned himself in to the reeducators, Gatt had been the one to write an impassioned letter on his behalf, even though it could have garnered suspicion if they'd made a different judgment. He _liked_ Gatt, damn it, and the name "Hissrad" on his lips should have been a nostalgic reminder of home.

Instead, when Gatt called him "liar," it felt like a betrayal — an ugly reminder of someone he wasn't sure he wanted to be. It felt like blinking open his eyes after his dragon rage in the Seheron jungle and hoping that none of the blood dripping from his axe had belonged to children. It felt like looking in the mirror to see someone he couldn't deny was himself, but whom he wished he hadn't become.

But instead of stopping to sort things out, he plowed forward. He sent his Chargers on the easier side of attack — and maybe, if he'd had a better handle on his thoughts, he would have remembered that a 'Vint army feigned weakness in the places where they reserved their greatest strength.

He didn't think.

He didn't think, so he had to watch helplessly as a squadron of mages advanced on his boys, Venatori mages trained to incinerate foot soldiers well before they entered striking distance. Either the Chargers retreated and let the Qunari dreadnought sink, or they gave their lives for those crucial minutes of distraction.

The question wasn't whether people would die; the question was who those people would be — and Bull knew what the right call should have been. Even his moment of indecision was a mark of weakness, something that would merit a note in Gatt's report. Sacrificing the Chargers made sense on every level — it would save the lives of the dreadnought's crew, not to mention the Inquisition troops at Adamant who needed Qunari backup. It was exactly why the Ben-Hassrath had given him this job: to advance Qunari power in concert with the Inquisition's own success. It would confirm that he still knew his role under the Qun, that he wasn't the uncontrollable Tal-Vashoth that Seheron had tried to corrupt him into becoming.

Yet despite all that, his throat caught, and he couldn't explain why.

He looked at Trevelyan for the strength to make the right choice. She was fond of the Chargers, he knew, but she was also an eminently practical woman. She understood the importance of this alliance to their victory against Corypheus.

Instead, he found her watching him already, her face soft with empathy and pain. "Call the retreat."

"Don't do it, Hissrad," Gatt cut in sharply. "I know you're better than a Tal-Vashoth. I _fought_ for you."

Time seemed suspended, and between one breath and another, the memory of Dorian's words came inexplicably to the fore. _"Love is when you don't care what's best any more, because all you want is for the person you love to be with you and be happy."_

 _Shit,_ Bull thought, _I think I love that band of idiots._

Then he raised his horn to his lips and sounded the Chargers' retreat.

 

...

 

The Inquisitor didn't try to placate him with empty words on the quiet journey back to Skyhold. The whole way home, Blackwall was the only one who mentioned Bull's decision directly, with a pat on the back and some crap about opening new doors.

Over the following days, Bull discovered that that even Blackwall’s empty platitudes were easier than reminders of the truth. The Ben-Hassrath already had assassins waiting for him in Skyhold, clumsy amateurs meant to teach him shame rather than fear. " _Ebost issala, Tal-Vashoth!_ " one of them shouted as he tumbled from the battlements, and Bull almost had to laugh. The Qunlat threat to turn him to dust was no threat at all — not if he truly was Tal-Vashoth.

Dust may have been worthless and dead, but at least dust couldn't murder the innocent in a blood-haze of madness. Bull trusted dust. He didn’t trust whatever he was becoming.

 

...

 

Bull wasn't hard to miss in a crowd, but he'd also had more than a little training as a spy. He knew how not to be found. So even in quarters as close as Skyhold, he managed to go three days before running into Cullen or Dorian. He felt a twinge of guilt about that — specifically, that he wasn't there to help Dorian, still fragile from their trip to Redcliffe — but every time he thought about approaching one of them, he remembered the word _katoh_ on Dorian’s lips, and then _Tal Va-fucking-shoth_. He refused to let himself harm either of them; if nothing else, he would make certain of that much.

Cullen’s workload and preference for solitude made him easy to avoid; Dorian showed up at the Herald’s Rest on occasion, but he tended to be a single-minded drinker when he indulged, rarely venturing to the upper floors of the tavern. So that was where Bull had holed up; a few extra coins ensured that Corff would send his most buxom barmaid upstairs every so often, fresh mugs of Fereldan ale in hand.

A dreamy voice interrupted him one evening. “Eyes wet with sweet tears and bitter sweat, a touch that wouldn’t stop shaking. _‘This has to end, Hissrad.’_ He went first because he was angry, but also because he was ready to go.”

“Shit.” Bull knew that Cole liked to drift around this part of Skyhold, but the demon-spirit-kid had left him alone until that point. “Not in the mood for it. Find someone else to help.”

“I’m sorry,” Cole said solemnly. “It’s hard not to hear when the thoughts thrum three-fold. You’re the help to their hurt, but you hoard your own wounds. They’re not like Vasaad. You can heal them.”

_Healing. A tamassran. That was what Vasaad had needed that night in Seheron, and Hissrad knew it. But they were deep in the jungle by then, resting from the hunt for the Tal-Vashoth, and he was the only person there who could fill the need. So he played the tamassran, and it came too easily: holding Vasaad as he wept, listening to his fury. “They were just kids, fucking **children** ,” he’d said in harsh despair, and Hissrad had nodded and stroked his back and murmured promises of retaliation. They’d find the base; they’d kill the monsters hidden in the woods. Then, later, the touches changed, and Hissrad let himself be what Vasaad needed, until his sharp edge of rage had been dulled by sweaty satiation. The sex felt strange, taboo — but he’d known Vasaad too long, he’d loved him too much, to deny him what he needed right then. He tended to his friend until morning, and when Vasaad rose to leave the tent, he looked Hissrad in the eye. “One more day of this,” Vasaad said. “For you.” He had crinkles at the edges of his eyes and lips a deep wine-red — almost as red as the blood that trickled out from them, later that day, as Hissrad watched._

Qunari didn’t fuck their friends; everyone knew that. But on that rust-red day, Bull had learned why: if you never fucked your friends, you never had to watch your choices kill the same person you’d fucked.

“I know what you’re trying to do, kid,” the Bull sighed. “You’ve got a good heart. Uh, if spirits have hearts. But even a shitty healer has to know when they’re not safe to hold a scalpel.”

"Safe, solid, secure. He tastes the consonants of ‘ _katoh_ ’ in his mouth sometimes, sweet release a breath away, but sweeter still to trust. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him."

“Yeah, this conversation’s over.” Bull rose, tried and failed not to slam his mug down on the table, and climbed up to his own bedroom. He felt like a barbed arrowhead had worked its way into his guts, and no matter which way he tugged, it just tore the wound deeper.

 

…

 

All of Skyhold hummed that week with the tension of waiting. They had set the date to leave for the assault on Adamant; alliances were in place; soldiers knew their units and their jobs. Cullen trained them every day, teaching them to fight demons, but the Bull could see that he wasn’t pushing them to the edge of their endurance. It made sense; better to conserve energy for the long march to the Western Approach. The mounting anticipation grew thick in the murmurs and restless shifting of the soldiers, and it put Bull even more on edge.

Then, one night, he climbed up to his chamber to find Dorian and Cullen waiting in it already. Cullen stood near the wall, his posture casual but tense; Dorian had clearly been pacing in circles. “What’s this about?” Bull asked, even as he pushed down the instinct to run, to flee. Anything to avoid hurting his precious ones.

“It may surprise you to hear this,” Dorian said dryly, “but I am not a patient man, and your absence has been rather noticeable. So the Commander and I have been … _conferring_ about the issue.” The slight emphasis of Dorian’s voice, combined with the tinge of a blush on Cullen’s cheeks, hinted at what those sessions of conferring might have involved.

Cullen continued the thread where Dorian left off. “We talked about what we could do for you, after you’ve done so much for both of us, and we decided on … this. But if it’s not working for you, then you have just as much right to use your watchword as either of us. Understood?”

“Sure,” Bull said, nodding slowly. For once, he had no idea what was coming next. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

“Excellent.” Dorian’s lip curled with an enticing smirk. “Now, I know you have plenty of implements and toys in your chest, and you’re welcome to use any of them. But I brought something of my own.” He held up a couple bundles of coiled cords that glinted with silvery thread. “Rope woven with a lyrium alloy; it seems Dagna uses it in her experiments. You can tie it or cut it like any other rope, but the lyrium threads mean that it’s simple for a mage to energize it and manipulate it at will — like so.”

Dorian gave Cullen a nod, and Cullen began to undress; they’d clearly planned this out. Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt, hands behind his back. He looked enticingly vulnerable, nude and exposed, but his eyes pierced Bull with their challenge. Meanwhile, Dorian crooked his fingers, and the rope uncoiled itself to slither over to Cullen’s body. It twined around his arms in a complicated weave, immobilizing them behind his back, then continued to bind the rest of his body: a harness around his chest, loops folding his calves against his thighs, and a simple cock ring to trap him in a state of arousal. The rope’s tawny shimmer contrasted delicately with the white gold of Cullen’s skin.

“Very good,” Dorian purred. He trailed a couple of delicate fingers over Cullen’s bound chest, lingering on his nipple until Cullen was biting his tongue in suppressed want. “Now, if you would, darling?”

“If you’re ready for it.” Cullen closed his eyes in concentration. Bull had just enough time to notice that Dorian was bracing himself, as if for a blow, when a wave of something rippled through the room. The shockwave left a strange emptiness in its wake; the air tasted hollow, like a stew with too little salt.

Then Bull saw the grimace on Dorian’s face, and he understood: Cullen had Silenced him, using whatever Templar power remained in his bones. He almost had to laugh as he realized the situation they’d created. With Cullen’s limbs bound and Dorian’s magic stripped away, Bull could overpower either of them with trivial effort. They’d given him true control over them both.

He felt instantly, painfully turned on. Even more, he felt like running out of the room before he could prove himself unworthy of their gift.

They were both watching him, and Bull cleared his throat, uncharacteristically nervous. “I don’t think I should be here.”

Dorian cocked a smug eyebrow. “Well, we do. You’re under no obligation to participate, naturally. But if you restrain yourself to mere observation, you might have to endure our begging. And we both know that the Commander does it _so_ prettily.” He ran one clever finger up the underside of Cullen’s cock and smiled at the visible shudder that ran through him in response. Then his expression sobered for a moment. “Bull, I can’t pretend to understand exactly what you’re going through, but I do know a bit about having to redefine your identity after cutting ties with your old home.” Dorian met Cullen’s eyes for a fond moment. “ _He’s_ not the sort of person to make advances when he thinks he’s unwanted, so I’ll do it for us both. We miss you, and we trust you — even and especially now. You’re a ridiculously overprotective mother hen at heart, and any attempt to deny it is, as they say, utter _vashedan_. Understood?”

Bull nodded, but he knew it as a meaningless gesture. He didn’t understand. Dorian had experienced Bull’s brutality first-hand; Cullen had fought Tal-Vashoth and seen their irrational blood-lust. Neither man was a fool. 

And yet.

“Please,” Cullen said, and his eyes shone with the confidence that Bull lacked. Dorian knelt between his legs, his customary leather straps gleaming in the candlelight, and kissed the tip of Cullen’s cock with reverence. Before Bull’s eyes, the half-hard member stiffened and lengthened, then disappeared between Dorian’s lips as he bent forward to swallow it down.

Cullen inhaled deeply, a soft shudder making his breath uneven, and he looked Bull in the eye. He began to speak in a practiced cadence — a recitation that Bull eventually recognized from the Chant of Light. “ _You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. You composed the cadence of my heart._ ”

“ _Kadan_ ,” Bull whispered, but Cullen shook his head. Dorian continued to suck him off, and Cullen’s arms trembled in their bonds, but only the slightest hitch in his voice betrayed him.

“ _Through blinding mist, I climb a sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base endlessly far beneath my feet. You are the rock to which I cling. I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped._ ” His voice broke at the final phrase, reduced to a strangled gasp of pleasure.

“You’re smarter than this, Cullen,” Bull said; something deep in him still resisted, though he could hardly even articulate why.

A wry twist quirked the edge of Cullen’s lips, already parted and thirsty for air. “Sometimes a little foolish trust is the only way to move forward. You taught me that.” He arched up instinctively into Dorian’s mouth, then unclenched his muscles with visible effort. “Dorian — I don’t think I can —”

“Mmmm,” Dorian hummed, Cullen’s cock slipping wetly out from his lips. He stood up, stretching out his knees with a pleasant sigh, and climbed behind Cullen. It took only a nudge to spread Cullen’s bound thighs wider, and then Dorian was coating his fingers in a thick unguent that Bull knew well. He met Bull’s eyes over Cullen’s shoulder. “Your turn. I’m going to open him up for your cock, and then I want to see how you take him.” A wicked smile crooked his lips. “And I want you to make it hurt.”

Bull inhaled sharply. This was a Dorian he saw only in brief glimpses — the Tevinter altus, born to power. Even with his lips still slick from Cullen’s cock, his eyes flashed with authority. Here, Bull felt on safer ground, a game played with the sterner tamassrans of his youth; he knew the familiar taste of defiance on his tongue, and he knew how to swallow it down and sink into obedience.

Inhalation; exhalation. With each breath, the Bull let himself fall deeper. Dorian had begun to stretch Cullen’s hole, the deft movements of his fingers manifest in every quiver of Cullen’s muscles, every catch in his breathing. With each uncontrolled reaction, the small, sharp smile on Dorian’s lips widened. “Bull, pick him up and set him on his back, right here.” Dorian patted a pillow set near the edge of the bed, just enough to lift up Cullen’s ass for even easier access. “I’m going to use his throat now; your job is to fuck him so hard that I can feel each stroke on my end. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Bull acknowledged, and he got to work. He stepped out of his own clothes, cock already stiff enough to make the task a little tricky, then flipped Cullen down onto his back with a practiced movement. Fuck, but his boy was pretty like this — not plucked and sleek like Dorian, but pink, pale, his Fereldan skin tender from a lifetime of concealment under layers of clothing. The torchlight flickered over the gleaming slick that trickled out of Cullen’s entrance, and Bull slid one finger in without adding extra oil, then crooked it right at Cullen’s sweet spot, greedily watching the full-body shudder in response.

 _Make it hurt,_ Dorian had said; this, Bull could do. With one finger still buried inside Cullen, he spread his other palm and gave Cullen’s cock a slap, without warning or build-up, and it startled a cry from Cullen’s throat. Another slap, and a third — not enough to damage, of course, but hard enough to hurt like hell. Just when Cullen had begun to brace himself for the blows, Bull reached higher up and gave his nipple a hard twist, his grip just on the soft edge of bruising.

Cullen’s cock hadn’t softened a bit. His mouth had fallen silently open, gasping in shallow breaths, but Bull could smell his desire filling the air, an intoxicating musk of sweat and precum and _kadan_. After giving the other nipple a matching yank, he circled his thumb and forefinger around the base of Cullen’s shaft and balls, a makeshift cock ring, and pulled the skin taut until Cullen’s hips arched up to relieve the pressure, still hobbled by their silvery ropes. Fucking gorgeous.

“You’re making a very pretty picture, but I don’t believe that’s all I told you to do,” Dorian’s voice cut into Bull’s thoughts. “Do you need me to tell you a second time?”

“Nope,” Bull grinned, though he didn’t change position quite yet. He _liked_ Dorian like this, and he was more than half tempted to see just how he’d punish Bull for bad behavior. A game for another night, perhaps.

Dorian cocked one eyebrow, and Bull finally relented, guiding his cock into Cullen — still a snug, silky-hot fit, despite all the teasing — and bearing into him until he could feel his hips press against the man’s milky ass. Stretching him open so fully seemed to drop Cullen even deeper into his floaty submission; Dorian’s hands were gentle as they guided Cullen’s jaw down and pressed his cock into the welcoming heat.

The picture in front of Bull was a vision to remember — Dorian kneeling over Cullen, facing Bull, his eyes closed in bliss as he plunged fully into Cullen’s mouth — but Bull knew his job. Gripping Cullen’s bound thighs for leverage, he began to set a steady pace of fucking. With each balls-deep thrust, he speared Cullen deeper with Dorian’s cock, and he could see the mage beginning to lose his fine control as it dissolved into the dripping sweat of raw want.

Back and forth Bull thrust, setting a relentless pace with his hips and trying to focus on holding back his own climax, a battle he knew he would soon lose. He slapped Cullen’s prick again, and the muffled scream in response seemed to trigger a chain reaction as Dorian’s own pace became sloppy, urgent. Bull could practically touch Dorian through Cullen, could feel Cullen’s body willing itself into being a vessel for them both, and when he struck Cullen’s cock one final time with the flat of his palm, it sent the other man over the edge, releasing thick spurts of come all over his chest. Dorian came only a moment later, muttering a desperate string of Tevene too quickly for Bull to understand, then pulling out so Cullen could draw in fresh gulps of air.

Then Bull could finally let himself loose, and he did. This was Cullen, this was his _kadan_ , beautiful and broken, giving himself over by choice, and Bull felt a hot prickling in his eye as he took and took and took. “Please,” Cullen begged, and Bull couldn’t deny him, and he came so hard that the world seemed for a moment to burst across his mind in dazzling darkness.

The three of them detached slowly afterward, and Dorian began to unknot the lyrium rope by hand. Each place where a knot had rubbed Cullen’s skin red, he brushed over it with gentle fingertips, then coiled the rope carefully when he was done. “Come here,” he said to Bull, and gestured to the bed. Cullen’s cheek rested on Dorian’s chest, his sweat-damp blond hair sticking to his forehead, and his limbs had relaxed into the soft lassitude that only came after an intense session of _issqun-antaam_.

After everything he’d already done that day, Bull could hardly refuse this much. He climbed up with a quick wince for what the sustained position had done to his knee, then settled himself around the other two. His mind flickered through the ways to break the silence and loosen the mood — a ribald joke, a casual statement of satisfaction, a good solid grunt — but none of them felt right.

The quiet lingered until Bull wondered if the other two had begun to fall asleep. At last, Dorian asked, his voice unusually subdued, “Do you understand now?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why we trust you, you oaf.”

Bull winced and didn’t bother to suppress it. “Yeah, still not getting it. I know I’m a good lay, but nobody’s _that_ good.”

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian sighed. “Talented though you may be in certain endeavors, it boils down to this. Even at your worst, even when you’re out of your mind with whatever brutish battle fever possesses you, you protect your own. You always protect your own.”

“I told him what _kadan_ means,” Cullen said, and his voice was quiet but very serious. “It’s not something I take lightly. Neither of us does.”

“I,” Bull started to say, then stopped. “I’m not often speechless, but this time you’ve got me.”

“Good,” Dorian said, and a pleased smile shone through his words. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

It wasn’t perfect. But in the haze of the dimming torchlight, with their two cadences of heart and lungs thrumming against Bull’s skin, it might be enough.

 

the end.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Given Bull’s comments on formalized practices of BDSM, I figured that there has to be a Qunari term for the practice. I hypothesized “issqun-antaam”: “mastery of the body.”
> 
> 2) Obligatory Don’t Try This at Home Note: Unless you have as much experience as Bull, don’t imitate his behavior here; he engages in various practices that can be very dangerous if done wrong. This is not a how-to manual for safe BDSM.
> 
> 3) “Pedicabo ego tū et irrumabo” is adapted from the famous first line of a poem by Catullus; an approximate translation is “I’m going to sodomize you and face-fuck you!” (We’ll just pretend that Tevene = Latin.) Special thanks to jack_the_giantkiller for fixing the grammar.
> 
> 4) I spent a while considering whether Cullen would be all right, tied up in lyrium rope -- whether the proximity would be soothing or tantalizing to someone in withdrawal. I eventually decided on the former, so in my headcanon, proximity to lyrium alloys basically works like a nicotine patch. (I have Ideas about how to play with the implications of that…)
> 
> 5) This story would not exist without my extraordinary cheerleaders and betas: [Misterkingdom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Misterkingdom/pseuds/Misterkingdom), [GirlNamedJack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlNamedJack/pseuds/GirlNamedJack), [Growflet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Growflet), and [Elisabeth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elisabethjlane). I owe you all more than I can say.


End file.
